


By His Side

by EllieSaxon



Series: Up The Seventeen Steps [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drugging for The Greater Good, Flashbacks, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Scared John, minor language, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6320134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/pseuds/EllieSaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after a huge fight with Sherlock, John gets a call from the hospital.</p><p>  <i>"There has been an accident."</i></p><p>Set during 'Half Empty, Whole Again.' What John went through while Sherlock was unconscious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By His Side

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is set during 'Half Empty' it might be a good idea to read that to get the background (and to find out what happens after this one ends)
> 
> Oh and let me just be clear, in no way is this medically accurate. All my limited medical knowledge comes from growing up with doctor and nurse parents, and working in building attached to a hospital (which is in America, so sorry for any differences to those in Britain)
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. All editing done by me, and I tried my darndest! And feel free to point out anything I missed.

* * *

 

With five little words, _‘There has been an accident’_ , John Watson’s world came to a screeching halt.

 

It happened on a Saturday afternoon, just a regular, unassuming Saturday afternoon. John was sitting in the living room of Harry’s flat going through some old e-mails, when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“ _Hello, may I speak to John Watson?”_ said the woman on the other end of the line.

“This is John Watson.”

_“I’m calling from UCL Hospital, and we have you listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”_

John’s stomach dropped. “What happened?” he asked, his voice cracking.

_"There has been an accident. Mr. Holmes was just brought in, a suspected stabbing –”_

Oh God, no. No, no, this couldn’t be happening. “I’m on my way.” John didn’t bother to let the woman finish, and hung up. He didn’t have time for manners, he needed to get to Sherlock.

“What is it?” Harry asked,  having sat up and stopped her channel flipping, and was now looking at John with concern. “Johnny, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Sherlock.” He choked. “He’s been hurt, he’s… he’s been taken to the hospital.”

“Oh,” she frowned, “That’s too bad, but what’s that got to do with you?”

“Everything! He’s my… he’s Sherlock. Jacket, I need my jacket.” John rushed around, throwing his jacket on and grabbing his wallet off the table. “I can’t find my phone. Where the fuck is my phone!?” He was panicked, Sherlock was probably dying, and John was just standing around Harry’s flat, looking for his god damn phone.

“Johnny. Johnny, calm down! You’re holding your phone.”

“Oh… right.” John glanced down at his hand to find his phone clutched tight in his fist. “Listen, I, uh, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll… I’ll try to call or text or something, later. I have to go.” Christ, what was he still doing here, Sherlock needed him.

“You’re actually going?” Harry huffed with a roll of her eyes.

“I don’t have time for this, Harry.” He said warningly, and headed for the door.

“I thought you two broke up, you haven’t seen him in months.” Harry called after him.

John just ignored her. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter that they fought; it didn’t matter if they broke up or were in limbo, those months away didn’t matter. None of it mattered. All John could think about was that Sherlock was hurt, and he wasn’t with him. He needed to get to Sherlock.

‘ _God, please let him be alright.’_

 

*******

 

After twenty-six minutes of pure agony – during which John could think of nothing but Sherlock alone, bleeding out, and him not being there when Sherlock needing him – the cab finally pulled up to the A&E. John threw the driver some cash, not even bothering to check to see if it was the correct amount, and ran straight into the hospital.

“I need to know where Sherlock Holmes is.” John said, forgoing pleasantries.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out patient information.” said the man behind the reception desk, looking up from his computer

“Can’t give out… You people called me!” John shouted. “I got a call saying that Sherlock Holmes was brought to this hospital with a suspected stab wound. Tell me where he is, I need to know where he is, I have to be with him!” He couldn’t believe this, he couldn’t breathe, he felt faint.

“Sir, if you’ll remain calm and tell me who you are, I’m sure we can get you the information you need.”

John took a deep breath, losing his composure and going off on the hospital staff was not going to do him any good, it was not going to get him to Sherlock any faster. “I’m Joh –”

“John! John, I thought that was you.” Came a familiar voice, and John turned just in time to see Lestrade jog up to him. Thank God, a familiar face. Lestrade looked haggard, and any other time John would have been the first to check how he was doing, but at the moment…

“It’s alright, he’s with me.” Lestrade said to the man behind the desk. “Come on, I’ll fill you in.” He turned back to John and led him over to the almost empty waiting area.

Finally, John was going to get some answers. “What happened, Greg? All they told me on the phone was there was a suspected stabbing. I need to see him, Greg. I need to be with him. Where is he?”

“John, I just you need to breathe for me, ok?”

“Tell me, Greg, please just tell me. He’s not… is he…” John was shaking now, he felt cold, he felt weak, it was like Bart’s all over again. All that time wasted, why did he walk out? Why did he leave? He should have been there; his place was with Sherlock, always.

“He’s alive. He’s in surgery, but he’s alive.”

“Thank God.” John breathed. He felt like a puppet with its strings cut, a wave of relief washed over him, and he could breathe again. Sherlock wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was still alive.

“Were you there? Did you see what happened?” he asked, his voice sounded so weak he almost didn’t recognize it as his own.

“I wasn’t right there, no,” Lestrade shook his head, looking down at his hands, “but I intercepted the call. I was the first on the scene with the ambulance.”

“But do you know what happened?” God, he just wanted answers. What was so difficult about telling him what happened?

“He was working a case, and had me run the name of a guy he suspected of selling stolen pain medication on the black market.” Lestrade explained, keeping his voice calm and level. “He ran off to confront the suspect, and based what we’ve gathered, the man panicked. He had a knife, and he…” He didn’t bother to finish his sentence.

He was stabbed, a knife pierced Sherlock’s body, and now he was in some operating theater fighting for his life. John should have been there, he should have protected him, he could have prevented this.

“Where,” he croaked, “where was he… where was he stabbed?”

Lestrade hesitated as if unsure if he should tell John. John couldn’t blame him, he must have looked a mess, and he had no idea what Sherlock told Lestrade about their time apart. “The left side, just under his ribs.” He said finally.

John immediately started listing off in his head all the possible damage Sherlock could have sustained; he felt like he was going to be sick. “I can’t lose him, Greg.” He whispered. “I love him, I’ve always loved him. I never should have left. It can’t end like this, it can’t…”

“John. Hey, John, look at me.” Lestrade commanded, drawing John’s attention to him. “It’s going to be alright. This is Sherlock we’re talking about, he’s made of stronger stuff. He’s going to pull through, and you two will make things right.”

“He has to.”

“He will. And until then, I think you should hold onto these,” Lestrade said, pulling something from his pocket. “They had to remove them when they brought him in.” They were John’s dog tags, the ones John gave Sherlock for their anniversary. He had told Sherlock that in Afghanistan that those tags protected his identity, protected him from obscurity, told the world who he was. He told Sherlock he didn’t need them anymore because he had Sherlock, that Sherlock was fundamental to his very being, that there was not John Watson without Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock kept his tags, Sherlock still wore his tags.

“Thank you.” John said quietly, closing his hand around the tags. The metal that was once warmed by Sherlock chest as it hung over his heart, now cold against John’s skin.

 

Neither spoke again after that, they just sat in silence, waiting for news. John was not a religious man, he had stopped going to church when he was about ten years old, he never saw the logic behind the existence of any sort of god, and he had seen too many senseless atrocities in his life to believe there was any higher power. But as he sat there, waiting as the fate of the man he loved hung in the balance, John prayed to any deity who would listen, for Sherlock to pull through, for Sherlock to come back to him.

 

*******

 

Afternoon transitioned slowly into early evening, and still he waited. At just over three hours after receiving the call from the hospital, John saw a doctor come through the doors leading to the operating theater, and walk toward where he and Lestrade were sitting. Fear gripped him like never before as he stood, this was it. He had to clench his left hand several times to subdue the tremor that had reappeared, he couldn’t afford to lose it now.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Cook. Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade? You’re here with Sherlock Holmes?” the doctor asked when she reached them.

“I’m Greg Lestrade. This is John Watson, Sherlock’s partner.” Lestrade said, gesturing towards John. John merely nodded, his throat too thick, and his mouth too dry to speak. “How is he?”

“Well, it was touch and go for a bit there, but we were able to get a handle on the bleeding, repair most of the damage, and managed to stabilize him.” Stable, Sherlock was stable. He survived. John felt as though his heart restarted.

“What do you mean by most of the damage?” He said in a horse voice, once he’d full processed everything that was said.

“Well, the knife perforated Mr. Holmes’ spleen, and we had to perform a partial splenectomy to take care of all the damaged tissue.”

“What else happened?” John asked, he could tell by Dr. Cook’s tone and language that there was something she wasn’t telling him. His nightmare wasn’t over yet.

“Mr. Holmes suffered a massive amount of blood loss –”

“How much? I’m a medical doctor, how much blood did Sherlock lose?”

“Nearly forty percent of his blood volume.”

John’s knees gave out from under him, and it was only because of Lestrade’s quick reflexes that he managed to land on a chair and not the floor.

"He arrested didn’t he? He arrested on the table.” John breathed.

“Briefly yes, but we were able to restart cardiac function almost immediately, and we believe there will be no permanent damage.” Dr. Cook kept her voice calm and level, clearly well versed in dealing with frightened friends and family.

As a doctor, John knew that people went into cardiac arrest and were successfully resuscitated all the time, but none of that mattered. Sherlock had died, no matter how briefly, Sherlock had died. For that brief amount of time, John had lost Sherlock.

“Where is he now?” He asked shakily.

“We’ve transferred him to the ICU.”

“I want to see him, can you please take me to him?” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m sorry, but because of his state, visitation is restricted to family only at the moment. You’re going to have to wait until Mr. Holmes in a more stable condition before you can see him.” Dr. Cook explained apologetically.

No. No, he needed to be with Sherlock, and before he had time to think, John blurted the first thing to come to him. “I’m his domestic partner. We’re getting married. I’m… I’m his fiancé.” He didn’t look at Lestrade, who thankfully didn’t say anything.

Dr. Cook looked unsure, but after a few moments, beckoned him to follow her.

“Greg,” John said, turning back to look at Lestrade, “I have to…”

“Hey, don’t worry.” Lestrade said reassuringly. “It’s going to be alright, just go. And send me an update whenever you can.”

“I… thank you.” John managed with a half smile, and hurried after Dr. Cook.

Dr. Cook led John through several hallways before coming to a stop in front of a room, the shades drawn and the door closed.

“Before we go in, Dr. Watson,” Dr. Cook said, turning to address John, “you should know that Sherlock is still unconscious. He appeared to show some signs of awareness as he was coming out of surgery, but slipped back under shortly thereafter.”

“Alright.” John nodded.

“He is still intibated, and remains on a ventilator.” Dr. Cook continued. “I want you to be prepared; it’s going to look a lot worse than it really is.”

“I appreciate you warning me, but I am a doctor.” He knew what to expect when it came to post operative patients, the IVs, the wires, and tubes. Sherlock was lying just on the other side of the door, John just wanted to get to Sherlock.

“It’s very different on the other side of things, Dr. Watson. When the patient is a loved one, we often forget what we know as doctors.”

She was right, no amount of medical training or knowledge could have prepared John to see Sherlock like that, his knees almost gave out on him for a second time. Sherlock was pale, his skin all but blending in with the bed sheets, there were multiple IVs going into his arm, a large bandage running along his left side, and another smaller one on his temple. Worst of all was the ventilator – half his face was obscured by the strap holding the breathing tube in place – forcing air in and out of his lungs. Wires connected him to various machines, and it was only their constant steady beeping that told John that Sherlock was still alive. Sherlock was never meant to look like this – so thin, so fragile, so still – it was wrong.

“What happened to his head?” John asked around the hard lump that had settled in his throat.

“He most likely hit it when he fell. We believe it’s only a mild concussion, but it needed a few stitches. And don’t worry,” Dr. Cook said, anticipating John’s next question, “we are monitoring it too, just to be sure there are no complications.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re just doing our jobs, Dr. Watson. Nurses are just outside, and will be in to check on Sherlock shortly. I have other patients to see, but I will also be around should you need me, and I’ll be in again soon as well. Your fiancé is in excellent hands here, we’ll make sure you don’t have to postpone the honeymoon” Dr. Cook added with a small smile, before turning to leave. And just like that, John was alone with Sherlock for the first time in three months.

“You know, this isn’t how I envisioned our reunion would go.” John said quietly as he pulled up a chair next to Sherlock’s bed. “You unconscious on a ventilator, me scared out of my mind.”

He carefully took hold of Sherlock’s hand, the one without any needles or tubes or monitors attached. His hand was warm, the skin on the back of it was soft and smooth – Sherlock had such surprisingly smooth skin – but it lay limp in John’s grasp.

“Sherlock, please, please I need you to come back to me. Please don’t do this to me again.” He choked. “I can’t do this, I can’t live in a world without you in it… not again. I can’t go through that again, I can’t.”

And that’s when the dam broke – when Sherlock didn’t respond to his touch, or to his voice, at all – the tears John didn’t even know he’d been fighting began to fall, and he cried. John cried for Sherlock, for the fact that Sherlock had been stabbed, that he had to undergo surgery, that he was hooked up to a ventilator. He cried for himself, for being an idiot and not being there when Sherlock needed him, for walking out on him and the three months they wasted. He cried for the future he prayed they still had together.

“I don’t even know if you even want me here after everything. Well tough,” John sniffed, “I’m going to stay right where I am. If you want me gone, you’re just going to have to wake up and tell me to go… Wake up, please wake up.”

 

*******

 

For what felt like hours, John sat with Sherlock. Only when various medical personnel came to check his status, did John let go of his hand and step away from his side; and the moment the checks were done, John was right back holding his hand. Through it all, John spoke to Sherlock, hoping that something would trigger him to wake up, and through it all Sherlock remained unconscious. Intellectually John knew it took a while to regain consciousness after suffering a trauma like Sherlock’s; his vitals remained consistent, and though he didn’t wake, Sherlock’s pupils responded to changes in light. As a doctor, John knew there was no reason to be overly concerned yet medically, but as a man sitting next to the love of his life, listening to a machine breathe for him, listening to his heartbeat through the beeps of a monitor, John was terrified.

 

It was the early morning hours of Sunday – several hours earlier, John had sent Harry a text letting her know he’d be staying at the hospital indefinitely – when Dr. Cook stopped in again to inform John that a more private room had been arranged for Sherlock

“You’re moving him already? He’s not even awake yet, he’s still on the vent.” John said incredulously. Sherlock was nowhere near ready to be moved.

“There’s absolutely nothing to be worried about,” Dr Cook said, trying to reassure John, “Sherlock’s new room is only a few doors away, just up the hallway. I’m still his doctor, and he’ll be getting the same exact level of care and attention. His brother felt a less exposed room would be better. It’s larger too, has its own bathroom, so that should be more comfortable for you, since I’m assuming you’re going to be staying as well.”

Mycroft, of course, how could he have forgotten about Mycroft? Now that he thought about it, John was surprised Big Brother hadn’t shown up yet. After John and the Holmes’, there was no one who loved or worried about Sherlock more than Mycroft. They could hardly sneeze without Mycroft knowing about it and paying a visit; he must have been away.

The new room was nice, the nurses station was directly opposite it, and at least the chair John dragged next to Sherlock’s bed had far better padding than the last one. And so, in slightly more comfort, John resumed his vigil by Sherlock’s side.

 

*******

 

John’s head was dropping with greater and greater frequency, and it was taking longer and longer for him to bring it back up, for his eyes to open. He had been awake for over twenty-four hours, and he had just started to doze, when the sound of choking and several alarms going off, brought him back to full wakefulness. The breathing tube, Sherlock was choking on the breathing tube.

John was on his feet before he even had time to think. “He’s fighting the tube.” He said, addressing the nurse who had come rushing into the room.

“Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?” The nurse said, ignoring John and focusing on Sherlock. “You have a breathing tube in, you need to relax.”

His eyes still closed, Sherlock didn’t respond, and only continued to choke.  Two more people in scrubs hurried in to hold him down as he began to thrash, his monitors continuing to sound.

“You need to extubate! He can’t breathe!” John cried. Sherlock had survived the stabbing, survived the surgery; John couldn’t lose him now, he couldn’t lose him to this.

“Sir, I need you to step back. We have this under control.” The first nurse called over her shoulder. The blood rushing through John’s ears made her voice sounded muffled, as if she were speaking from far away.

As if in slow motion, John watched as the nurse pulled the breathing tube from Sherlock’s throat, and with one final buck, Sherlock collapse back onto his bed, back into unconsciousness.

 

“Are you the fiancé?”

John wasn’t even aware any time had passed, but he suddenly realized that only the first nurse remained in the room, and she was speaking to him, her voice now calmer.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked, looking up at her. Wasn’t he just standing? How did he get back into his chair? When did he sit down?

The nurse smiled at him, she had a kind, understanding smile. “Nurse Carlton, the night nurse, told me that Mr. Holmes’ fiancé was staying with him. I’m assuming you’re the fiancé.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Fiancé, if only that were true. “Yeah, I’m John. John Watson.”

“Leah Albertson,” The nurse – Leah – introduced herself, “I’m going to be Mr. Holmes’ nurse during days.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m … ah… I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to get in your way.” John apologized.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s frightening to see someone you love like that. It happens all the time, really.” Leah reassured him.

Oh, he knew all too well the flack nurses had to deal with on a day-to-day basis, and adding to that by being an obstinate loved one was the last thing John wanted to do. “Still, I apologize.”

“So, how long have you two been together?” Leah asked as she finished up her check on Sherlock. After the scare, his vitals appeared to have leveled out, and the beeping of his monitors returned to their regular, steady pattern.

“Almost… almost two years officially,” John said, “but… but we were friends for years before that.” _‘And I loved him from day one.’_ He left that part unsaid.

“Well, that’s how you should do it, friends first. That always makes it feel more special.”

“He’s my best friend, the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“He’s a lucky man, your fiancé.” Leah smiled again. “Alright, he seems to be breathing well on his own, and his oxygen saturation level looks good. I know it may not seem like it now, but Sherlock is on the road to recovery, we just need to give him a little time.”

“I know.” John nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’m just doing my job. And while I’m at it, I would suggest you get some rest yourself, maybe something to eat. You’re no good to him if you end up in hospital yourself.”

“I’m fine, really.” John said as he stared down at Sherlock, lightly brushing a few stray curls off his forehead. He could take care of himself later. Right now Sherlock needed him, and it would take more than one kindhearted nurse to tear him from Sherlock’s side.

Nurse Leah said something else as she exited the room, but John had already stopped paying attention at that point. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. He looked so peaceful, and though he was right there, he looked so far away.

Almost two years wasn’t nearly enough time, they needed decades together. _‘Please come back.’_ He thought _. ‘You did it before. Just do it one more time, and come back to me. Give us those decades.’_

 

At the time, John thought the day Sherlock came back to him – came back from the dead – was the happiest day of his life, but it didn’t hold a candle to the day Sherlock finally became his.

 

~***~

 

_It had been a week since ‘The Return’, seven days since John looked up from his desk expecting to greet a new patient, only to find his best friend who had been dead for two years, standing in front of him. Sherlock tried to explain, but John wanted no part of it, and after a painful confrontation – leaving Sherlock with a split lip, and John with some bruised knuckles – John kicked his very much alive best friend out of the surgery. It had been five days since John calmed down enough to accept that he’d gotten his ‘one more miracle’, and went to 221B Baker Street with Chinese takeaway and finally listened to what Sherlock had to say. And it had been four days since he started to let himself forgive Sherlock for leaving him. All in all, it had been one hell of a week._

_John was just letting himself into his flat – his third in the two years he thought Sherlock was dead – contemplating whether or not he wanted to call Sherlock, when he found the man himself, curled up on his couch._

_"John, you’re home.” Sherlock said, struggling to sit up. John knew there were injuries, souvenirs from his time on the run. The way Sherlock moved, the way he held himself, said it all. He hadn’t said anything about them yet, but John knew they were there._

_“Sherlock?” John furrowed his brow, wondering what Sherlock was doing in his flat. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”_

_"No. Why would anything be wrong?”_

_“Oh, I just… thought… well, you’re waiting in my flat.” John stumbled, he was still getting used to actually having the real Sherlock to talk to again. “Not that I don’t want you here. I always… You’re always welcome.” He added hastily._

_“Baker Street is empty.”_

_"Is Mrs. Hudson away?” She had been there two days ago when John stopped by, and she hadn’t said anything to him about any trips. Then again he’d moved out, she didn’t have to keep him apprised of her whereabouts._

_“No, no, she’s there… It’s the flat, our flat, it’s not the same.” Sherlock mumbled quietly, not quite meeting John’s eyes._

_"Well, it’s been two years, some things are bound to have changed. And hey,” John said, trying to smile, “you’ve only been back a week, things will feel normal again.”_

_“It’s not going to be normal, John. It can’t be.”_

_Now John was getting concerned. He always knew that beneath the cold exterior Sherlock put on for the public, beat a very human heart – he had said nothing else since Sherlock fell – but he had never heard Sherlock sound so vulnerable, never seen him look so small._

_“Alright, what’s wrong? Why can’t it be normal again?” He asked, moving to sit down on the couch._

_As if by instinct, Sherlock seemed to curl in on himself, and though he still didn’t meet John’s eye, he did shift closer, the top of his curly head almost brushing John’s shoulder._

_Sherlock’s words were muffled as he spoke into his own chest. “You’re not there. It can’t be normal without you!”_

_“I’m still here.”_

_"It’s not the same! You’re not at Baker Street.” Sherlock said, lifting his head to finally look at John. “Come home, John. Please come home.”_

_Home. God how he wanted to go home, and Baker Street was the only place that had ever really felt like home._

_“I have a lease.” John sighed. “I just can’t.”_

_"So break it. I’ll pay any penalties, just come home.”_

_“Sherlock –” John started, but Sherlock cut him off._

_"I don’t want to be alone anymore!” He blurted. “When I was away, all I wanted was to come home, come home to Baker Street, to you, to Mrs. Hudson. Baker Street is still there, Mrs. Hudson is still there, but you’re not! Your things aren’t there, your noise, your… your smell. I know you’re still mad, I know I left you alone, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do it, I can’t be alone. I don’t want to be alone. Please, please just come home so I don’t have to be alone.”_

_Sherlock was visibly shaking, and John’s heart ached. He was sick of being alone too. For the past two years, he had longed for their life together at Baker Street, and now that  it was within his reach again, he didn’t’ understand why he was being an idiot, he had to grab it._

_"Ok.” He hummed, wrapping a careful arm around Sherlock back, pulling him against his side, tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin. “Ok. I’ll call my landlord in the morning, I’ll come home.” Then, without any real conscious thought, John tilted his head to plant a kiss amongst those dark curls._

_Instead of freezing, instead of pulling away, of putting distance between them – as John expected him to do – Sherlock lifted his head to look up at John, his eyes open and questioning. Sherlock looked so innocent, almost hopeful, that John felt his chest tighten, and hesitantly, he leaned down, pressing his lips gently to Sherlock’s._

_He wasn’t sure it even counted as a kiss, just dry lips brushing against dry lips. John didn’t push, didn’t try for more than that soft contact. It only took a few seconds for him to realize that Sherlock hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted at all, and so he pulled away._

_“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” He apologized quietly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Yes he did, and he knew exactly why he did it. He loved Sherlock, possibly from the first case with the pink lady and the killer cabbie, the night he’d killed for Sherlock. Of course it wasn’t until Sherlock ‘died’ that he realized it, but he did. John was in love with Sherlock, he loved him as he’d never loved anyone before, and when Sherlock looked at him with such open vulnerability, he thought ‘if I don’t kiss this man right now, I may not breathe again.’_

_“It won’t happen again.” One kiss, John could live the rest of his life knowing he’d gotten to kiss Sherlock at least once._

_“No, wait! But I want it to, I want it to happen again!” Sherlock exclaimed vehemently. “Kiss me again, John!”And then suddenly John had an arm full of Sherlock, and Sherlock was smashing their mouths together._

_Where the first kiss was gentle, this kiss was hard, bordering on painful, so much so that John had to physically push himself back. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, holding Sherlock by the shoulders at arm’s length, “but I don’t want you to think you have to do that to get me to come home.”_

_"But I –” Sherlock started, but John ignored him and kept talking, he had to get it out._

_“I know stuff like that makes you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry. I promise I don’t expect anything. My feelings for you… my feelings won’t get in the way.”_

_“John –”_

_“Just delete it ever happened. I won’t try anything like that again, you don’t have to worry.” He couldn’t lie to himself, Sherlock deleting the kiss would hurt, but –_

_“John would you shut up for a second!” Sherlock groaned, cutting off John’s rant. “I do want this. For the past two years, more than two years actually, I have dreamed of nothing but this…with you.”_

_“But –” John couldn’t quite grasp what he was hearing. No, no his ears were playing a trick on him, Sherlock couldn’t possibly… No, John already got his miracle, he couldn’t possibly get this too._

_“I just… I just never thought you wanted it, not with me. I never thought I could actually have this, have… you.” Sherlock finished quietly, his eyes averted once again._

_John couldn’t think of what to say, couldn’t think of what to do, so instead he just acted on instinct and did what came naturally. Cupping Sherlock’s cheek, John closed the distance between them again, this kiss a happy medium between the two that came before._

_“How could you not know I wanted this?” John breathed against Sherlock’s slightly parted lips. “How could you not know how much I wanted you?”_

_“You always denied it – corrected anyone who – mistook us for a couple.” Sherlock mumbled, continuing to kiss John. “And the women – it was like there was a new one – every week.”_

_“Defense mechanism –” John sighed. “Everyone kept assuming we – were together, and we weren’t – and it just kind of hurt. I didn’t fully understand – why, but it did, and I thought – if people stopped assuming – or I was distracted – it would be easier. – Never dreamed – you could feel the same – that you’d want me too.”_

_“Of course I did,” Sherlock frowned, pulling away, breathing heavily, “Of course I do.”_

_“After that night at Angelo’s, the whole married to your work thing. And after I got to know you, saw how remarkable you are, how could you be interested in me.” John smiled slightly, still not believing what was happening, and unable to stop himself, he began smoothing his hand through Sherlock’s curls._

_“I was an idiot, I regretted saying it almost as soon as I said it.” Sherlock groaned. “You moved in, we started working cases together, you were amazing and confusing, and I couldn’t help fall… I couldn’t help developing feelings for you.”_

_Sherlock Holmes found him amazing. Sherlock Holmes, who took down a criminal network and returned to him from the dead, that Sherlock Holmes found John amazing, that Sherlock Holmes had feelings for John. John let out a sigh, if the arm of the sofa wasn’t digging into his back, he would have sworn he was dreaming._

_“God, if we’d only spoken up sooner, things could have been so different.”_

_"I know.” Sherlock nodded, seeming almost sad. “It wasn’t until I… until I left that a realized what I was feeling, but I understand if the damage is done. I understand if I’m missed my moment, my shot with you.”_

_No, no, no, no. No, John couldn’t come so close to finally having what he wanted – what he needed – only to lose it again. He couldn’t risk this chance, this second miracle._

_“I only meant that I wonder how things would have been different if we had realized our feelings before, if we had been together before it happened, instead of only starting now.” John said, lifting Sherlock’s chin to look at him. “But you’re back now, we know now, and we can stop being idiots.”_

_“You mean you want to…” Sherlock asked cautiously_

_“Yeah, I do.”_

_“So, you and me… we’re…”_

_"Yeah.” John grinned, kissing Sherlock again. “I mean, I may still use the ‘you left me for two years’ line once in a while when we argue, but yeah, it’s definitely you and me.”_

_“I can work with that.” Sherlock hummed, and pulled John into another dizzying kiss, thereby ending most of the verbal communication for the remainder of the evening._

_They slept together that night. There wasn’t any sex – that came later – that first night John led Sherlock by the hand to his bedroom, and they just laid together on John’s bed, their heads sharing one pillow. Holding each other close, they traded mumbled words and gentle kisses until eventually they drifted off together. It may have taken a week – seven days since ‘The Return’ – but John finally understood ‘The Fall’, and was finally able to forgive._

 

~***~

 

Sherlock’s condition remained constant over the following day. There were no more fits, he was breathing on his own, his oxygen saturation levels were good, and his heart rate remained strong. The only problem was that he had yet to regain full consciousness. There were moments when his eyes would flutter, even open, or his head would move ever so slightly and he’d make the smallest noises. It was as if Sherlock was fighting to wake up only to slip back under. Each time it happened, John held his hand and called his name, hoping that that was the time Sherlock finally broke through, and he finally came back. John felt the fist around his heart tighten each time Sherlock failed to respond, each time he failed to reach the man he loved.    

 

It was during Sherlock’s second full day in hospital that Dr. Cook ordered he be taken for a PET and CT scan.

“We have no real reason to be concerned,” Dr. Cook said, trying to sound reassuring, “and we don’t believe his brain function has been compromised, but I just want the scans to be sure.”

Compromised brain function, John didn’t want to even entertain the possibility. Sherlock’s mind was a thing of wonder, there was nothing Sherlock valued above his intellect. If he lost any of the speed, lost even one of those brilliant connections, if he was even the slightest bit more like ‘the ordinary people’, Sherlock would be devastated. John would always love him not matter what – nothing was ever going to change that – but John didn’t know how he would handle seeing Sherlock suffer like that.

As if she could read John’s inner struggle, Dr. Cook placed a gentle hand on his upper arm. “This is just standard procedure for a patient who hasn’t woken up yet, especially because of the head injury.” She said softly. “I’m really not concerned. He’s breathing well and his heart rate is steady, his brain hasn’t been starved of oxygen. I fully believe he’ll regain consciousness once his body has healed a bit more. The body sometimes locks down for a bit, the shock of the trauma and blood loss, and focuses all its energy on getting better.”

“No, no, I understand.” John nodded. And he did, he knew the human body, how it protected itself, how resilient it was. But knowing something intellectually did nothing to quell the terror he felt.

“The scans should take about an hour to run.” Leah said from beside Sherlock’s bed, getting him ready for transport. John hadn’t even noticed she was there, hadn’t seen her come in. “Why don’t you try and get some rest, or go down to the café for some real food. “ She suggested.

“I’m fine, I want to be sure to be here when he gets back.” John said, shaking his head. Leah seemed to have made it her mission to get John to eat and sleep, so far she was not very successful in that mission. John almost wanted to laugh; apparently when Sherlock was out of commission, John took up the mantle of no food, no sleep, and general ‘transport’ neglect.

“You know the saying that doctors make the worst patients? Yeah, that’s a lie.” Leah sighed. “It’s their families. The doctors don’t take care of themselves, but think they know better, so you have to look after them in addition to the patient.”

“Sorry, I’ll try to do better.” John shrugged sheepishly, and then leaned over the side of Sherlock’s bed. “I promise I’ll be here when you get back, and I expect you to be awake by then.” He murmured low enough so neither Nurse Leah nor Dr. Cook could hear. “I love you.” He added kissing Sherlock’s temple.

 

Partially taking Leah’s advise, John did run down to the café to buy himself a sandwich, but brought it back to Sherlock’s room to wait, and while he waited, he used the time to update everyone as much as he could. Running on over forty-eight hours of practically no sleep, he knew he really should have tried to get some rest, but every time John tried closing his eyes, he just saw Sherlock bleeding out, he imagined waking up to a world without Sherlock. No, he would rest when it was Sherlock telling him to go to sleep, and not a second sooner.

His first call was to Lestrade, he had promised to keep Lestrade informed, and felt a bit guilty having only sent a single _‘Alive. Still not awake. Breathing on his own’_ text the day before. After listening calmly and trying to reassure John that Sherlock had pulled through worse, Lestrade updated John on the investigation. They had the man who’d stabbed Sherlock, in custody, having apprehended him shortly after the incident. Apparently he had been ‘so shaken by what had happened’ – the bastard had the gall to try and play a victim – that he went into a pub not too far from the crime scene, and the owner called the police. He still had the knife covered in Sherlock’s blood, he still had Sherlock’s blood on him, he didn’t even try to deny it when questioned. If it weren’t for the fact that John needed to stay with Sherlock, he would have been down at the Yard then and there. He wanted ten minutes alone with the son of a bitch, he wanted to make him suffer.

John’s next call was to Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade had let him know that he had already spoken to her, and was keeping her in the loop, but John felt she ought to get the news from him directly. She seemed relieved to hear from him, and even more so when he said he was staying and not leaving until Sherlock is released. _‘I always knew you two would make up sooner or later, I just wished it hadn’t taken one of you getting hurt to get the ball rolling’_ She had sighed.  And finally in true Mrs. Hudson fashion, she asked if there was anything she could do or bring them, and when she could visit. Not wanting to worry her further, John decided to not tell her that Sherlock had yet to fully wake up, and instead told her that he was still weak, and the doctors wanted to hold off on visitors for the time being so as to not over tax him.

The last person was Mycroft, and John weighted whether or not to contact him, not knowing how he would be received. Mycroft was probably getting up to the minute reports, and probably knew everything that was going on as it happened; he didn’t _need_ to hear it from John. In the end though, John decided he had to say something – if only to acknowledge his presence – and sent a simple one sentence text;

_‘Thank you for not kicking me out – JW’_

 

*******

 

Sherlock’s scans came back clear, no sign of any brain damage or diminished brain function, and day two transitioned into day three. His half waking spells continued, and though they were coming with greater frequency, none of them lasted long enough for John to get a hold of him and finally pull him back into the world. Still, Dr. Cook took it as a good sign, and John _knew_ that is was; so for the first time since the call, John began to feel hopeful. Sherlock was going to wake up, at any moment his eyes were going to open, he was going to see John, he was going to speak, and John was going to get him back. It was only a matter of time, and all John had to do was wait.

 

The early afternoon sun was streaming in through the window, and sat John reading the novel Harry had brought him the night before. It was one he had already read, but since Harry was kind enough to keep her opinions on John’s decision to stay in the hospital to herself, he thought it best not to comment. No sleep, already knowing the story, and trying to hold the book and turn the pages one handed – John’s other hand was wrapped securely around Sherlock’s – made a potent combination, and John had to fight to keep his eyes from closing. 

“Well those are different clothes, but by the looks of you, clearly sleep did not go along with the fresh outfit.”

John looked up from the page he’d been stuck on for ten minutes, to find Nurse Leah standing in the doorway. “What?” He frowned. “Oh, no, my sister brought me some things last night.” He said, nodding to his gym bag in the corner. “Clothes, book, toothbrush, just the essentials so I can feel at least slightly civilized.”

“And sleep? Is just a few hours really so much to hope for?”

“At the moment? Yes.” John was bone tired, he wasn’t denying that, but he had to be awake in case something happened, he had to be awake if Sherlock needed him.

“I thought so.” Leah sighed, rolling her eyes. “Well I’m going on my break, so Nurse Luo is going to be covering in case you need anything. Do you want me to bring you back anything from the café?”

If she wasn’t trying to get him to sleep, she was trying to get him to eat.

“A cup of tea would be great, but you really don’t have too.”

“Nonsense, tea cures all manner of ills. What kind of nurse would I be if I didn’t at least offer that? And I think I remember how you take it.”  Leah grinned and left the room.

Not understanding why she was so happy about getting him tea, John just shook his head, resettled his grip on Sherlock’s hand, and went back to trying to read his book. He had managed to make it through another two pages when Leah returned a half hour later.

“I’m back! Your tea, as requested, and I threw in a muffin!” She said, carefully handing John the paper cup of hot tea, and a bag containing a muffin.

“Ta, you really go above and beyond here.” John hummed taking a sip. Leah had evidentially added sugar, but well, who was he to complain. “What do I owe you?”

Leah just waved him off, that same odd grin on her face. “Oh you don’t owe me anything, trust me. It’s my treat.” She said. She was probably one of Mycroft’s people, or at least catering to John and Sherlock was probably one of the ‘requests’ Mycroft made of the hospital.

“I’m just outside if either of you need me. Oh and John, I suggest you rest your cup on the table when you’re not drinking it, wouldn’t want to risk spilling anything.” Leah added, and quickly made her exit. Odd girl indeed.

John was very glad he took Leah’s advice about leaving the tea on the table, because he had only finished about a half of the cup before he started to feel woozy, his limbs started to feel heavy. He knew he was tired, but this felt different, it was almost like he was… _shit!_

*******

 

He had been having the most awful nightmare, Sherlock had been attacked and no matter how hard he tried, John could do nothing to help him. Sherlock was just out of reach, and all John could do was sit and wait, and hope Sherlock would return to him.

It was awful, it was… John’s eyes snapped open, it was real.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” said Nurse Leah, sounding far too chipper. “I was hoping you’d wake up before shift change.”

“What did you do?!” John hissed. He was seething, and sat up too fast. Christ his neck was sore, and god how his shoulder ached. But he put pain aside, and quickly started checking over Sherlock, he had to make sure something didn’t happen to him while he was asleep.

“Calm down John, it was just a little something to help you sleep. You were halfway there already, we just gave you the finally kick.” Leah’s tone placating. “And don’t you feel better?”

“We? We who?”

“Your brother-in-law thought it was necessary, and Dr. Cook agreed.”

Mycroft, of course it was Mycroft. He always had to stick his nose where he was neither wanted nor needed. Always presuming he knew best; John had it under control.

“You’re a doctor,” Leah continued. “You know the terrible effects sleep deprivation has on the body.  And your brother-in-law wanted me to tell you that ‘you can’t help Sherlock recover if you have to recover yourself.’”

“Fine, fine.” John really didn’t want to deal with Mycroft’s meddling, at the moment he was more concerned with Sherlock. “How’s Sherlock? Is he okay? Did anything happen while I was asleep? How long was I asleep?” He asked, only just then realizing it had gone dark outside.

“Wow, slow down there. It’s just after seven, so you’ve been asleep for about six hours.” Six hours, shit. “And Sherlock is doing just fine, he actually woke up a few hours ago.”

“He woke up?!” Three days of waiting, three days of worry, and John had missed it. “I wanted to be there when he woke up, I wanted to talk to him.”

“But you were here, and I think just seeing that you were did him a lot of good.” Leah said reassuringly.

“So how was he?”

“Pretty weak, but he seemed to recall everything that happened to him, knew who you were, so that’s very good. He was in some pain, so I turned up his morphine. He was probably only wake for five minutes total.”

“But he woke up.” John repeated. He needed the confirmation, he had to know.

“He woke up.” Leah smiled. “And he’ll probably be waking up again pretty soon. I’ll be in to check on him again in a little bit, then I’m afraid you’re stuck with Nurse Carlton for the night again.”

“Thank you.” John said. “I mean it, thank you. Though not for the drugging me thing.”

“I’d do it again,” Leah laughed. “And John... he woke up.”

 

For about twenty minutes, John just stared at Sherlock. He looked different now, he shouldn’t, but he did. He just looked like he was sleeping – and he was – he didn’t look lost, he didn’t look like he was somewhere John couldn’t reach him.

John felt a tear slide down his cheek as he took Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his lips. “You came back.”

 

*******

 

Not that he would ever admit it to her, but Nurse Leah’s little stunt with the sedative in the tea had really done the trick. Though not anywhere near fully rested, the six hours John got had done wonders. He felt more refreshed, calmer, and far more relaxed; though the fact that Sherlock regained consciousness for a bit may have factored into it.

Leah had done her final check, Nurse Carlton had already come by to do her first of the night, and John sat reading his book again – still one handed as the other held firmly to Sherlock’s. He was actually able to focus more, and found himself getting caught up in the story, so much so that he almost missed the sound of bed clothes shifting, and the movement and increased pressure in his hand.

“John.” It was more of a breath than anything else, but John thought his name never sounded more beautiful.

John was on his feet and was standing, gazing down at Sherlock before he even realized he’d moved. “Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you open your eyes for me?” He asked hesitantly, gripping Sherlock’s hand tighter, afraid to hope.

And then he was staring into those beautiful, unfathomable, indescribable eyes he loved so much; eyes so bright, eyes that John feared he’d never see again. Sherlock was staring back at him with a look so similar to that night almost two years ago – with trepidation and hope – that John could feel a lump forming in his throat. Sherlock had come back to him, and this time around John was going to make sure that, no matter what, he would stay by his side… forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost called this fic 'Hospital Stay' then I realized it sounded like it would belong in my other series :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it (even though it took me a shamefully long time to actually get it done.)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think, good or bad!


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